


Dominus

by HouseOfCrows



Category: Original Work, Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Ancient Rome, Being a historical look at what would be a very uncommon relationship, Eventual relationship, Historical Fantasy, M/M, More OC than anything else, Multi, Rome is the setting not so much the plot, dubcon, well it's dubcon if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-04-07 02:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14071137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HouseOfCrows/pseuds/HouseOfCrows
Summary: A Praefectus of the 13th Gallic Legion under Mark Antony, finds himself in Gaul with Caesar. It's not the only thing he finds.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on years worth of research into Roman history and culture, back when I was 20. That means this story idea is over seven years old, and was written six years ago. A lot has changed, and characters have been reworked. It's also quite likely that I've still missed some details because a lot of important documents are behind paywalls that, since I'm no longer a college student, I cannot access. 
> 
> Justin is a Praefectus Legionis, a cavalry commander under the Legatus of his legion.
> 
> Justin's name as it's used, isn't entirely accurate, but it's been too many years of using this one to go in and change it now. He'd rebel. Roman naming convention is Most Private, Family, Middle, General; Justin's goes General, Family, Middle, Most Private. There's a lot of reasons for this, but it's weird and complicated. So you can choose to ignore it, or not. Don't @ me.
> 
> This is a load of angst, hurt/comfort and historical anachronism for the sake of wish fulfillment and romance. It's about as historically accurate as ROME. Which is to say, more than Spartacus, and less than a documentary. Esaron has been a pet character of mine for years, and is here because I enjoy his rage~ 
> 
> The main point of this story is how Titus and Ryan interact~ Enjoy

_Amid The Ruins_

 

They had come from seemingly everywhere. These soldiers of Rome in their shining armor and brilliant, scarlet cloaks. Ryan, son of a merchant, had heard the screams before anything else. No shouted orders, no drums. Just chaos and death. His green-blue eyes stared out at the oncoming storm of destruction, knowing that this was the price for those who defied Roman rule. As they came down the hill through the trees, crimson and gold flashing between the early spring leaves, he broke and ran. Ran for all he was worth for home, and the uncertain safety it offered.   
It began too quickly, huddling there against the wall, trying to make himself feel as small as he could. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe... _maybe_. But maybe wouldn't and couldn't save him. Maybe if the 16 year old had been more athletic, instead of lithe and not given to building his physical strength he would have had the presence of mind to run farther and faster. To keep himself free, no matter the cost. Instead, he stayed where he was. Waiting for the destruction to begin.

He hadn't known until the soldiers were swarming the village. Seen them advancing. But every boy would run. Every boy would be afraid. Women screaming to the gods, men grabbing up daggers and carving knives. Farming tools and staves to fight off armed soldiers, some of them mounted; over what they owed Rome. Lucky for Ryan that he had not been far from his home. Lucky for him, that he had not fought back. Drawn attention to himself. He knew, even before the first blows fell, who was destined to win. 

And so he huddled there in the dark, surrounded by nothing but the ring of steel on steel and shouted orders. Screams of men and women who fought, bled and died. It all went on for too long. He did his best to block it out, to not let it affect him. Fighting back the urge to run for it. But by now the entire village would have been surrounded, and archers to pick off those who tried to avoid their certain fate. He had long ago decided that he would rather live a slave than die for the sins of others. He had not made the decision to defy Rome. He had not cursed Her, or Her soldiers. He did not deride Her army. His life had only gotten better through Roman medicine and Roman education. But now, knowing what he knew, it was better to surrender than to fight. And so he stayed, pressed against the wall of his home, knowing that surrender would likely still be met with a sword, until the rest of the village was subdued.

~*~

Esaron was not one to sit around and wait. Not to hide. The boy screamed as he ran for a fallen soldier, felled by some farmer with a shovel. He grabbed at the blood-stained handle of his sword, taking off after the soldiers. "Fuck Rome," He snarled, attacking as only a roughened, bitter boy of 14 could. " _Die!_ Gods spit on your corpses!" Not that there were many Roman soldiers lying in the mud. He continued his race through the streets, cutting and hacking at soldiers and taking his own few cuts in return as he scampered away again.

The boy was quick enough on his feet, sliding a little in the mud and stone of the streets. And yet, his was not a very large village. He found a few soldiers alone, and had only a moment to decide he was strong enough.  
"Come on then, dogs! Or will you not fight an armed innocent?" It only took a few blows for the sword to be knocked out of his hands; too heavy for a youth like him to use without training.  
" ** _Insolent-_** " The soldier struck his face, knocking the boy to the ground. He snarled, fighting back to his feet. The next blow caught him over the ribs and he stayed down, staring up at them with fire in his eyes. "Put him in chains with the others," The officer sighed. "Maybe the road back to Rome will settle him."

~*~

Lucius Vorenus strode through the village and in and out of houses, rounding up the stragglers left behind. The slave lines were growing rapidly, but soon enough most of these would be sent onward to Rome. Pullo counted off at his side, sword in hand as the Centurion bound the hands of another man and shoved him into place.  
"Take these to the Legatus, Pullo, and mind they all reach the pens alive or I'll know the reason why." Pullo saluted, sullen, and took up the chain to lead them off. Even the vulgar and ill-disciplined solider knew better than to cross Vorenus when he was on duty.   
"Sir!"   
  
When they had gone, Vorenus beckoned two of the next soldiers in his cohort forward. Together, they shoved in the door. Empty. He left the others to clear the house, and moved on to the next on his own. Almost, he could pity the pathetic barbarian hordes, but it was the Gods will. They had defied the will of Rome, refused to pay their taxes, and scorned Roman rule. An example had to be made, or the next uprising would be far worse. He spotted Ryan huddled against the wall almost immediately, lifting the blade of his sword in defense.  
"On your feet! This village is now under Roman authority, and you are hereby claimed in the name of Rome and one Gaius Julius Caesar." 

In the light of the winter sun, Ryan lifted a hand to shield his eyes, before rising only to his knees with bowed head.  
"I submit to the will of the gods, and to Rome. I will go with you willingly, just..." He looked up, his eyes the color of the spring wood meeting the deep brown of the soldier's. "Please. Do not hurt me. I will not raise a hand against you, I swear it, by any god you name!" What Justinian would say of him later was true, there was no real fight in him; not when he too-well understood the cost of fighting.

Vorenus sheathed his sword, extending a hand to the boy and dragged him to his feet. Grudging respect on his face for the one male of this village who had known better than to lift a hand against the might of Rome.  
"Be silent." He commanded, resisting the urge to cuff the boy to soothe his own battered nerves. "Your fate is the hands of the Gods, now."

The boy swallowed hard, his eyes welling up a little. He blinked away the tears, bowing his head so they would not be seen.  
"Gratitude," he whispered, his long dark hair hiding most of his face from view. He was paler than some; due to his father being a merchant and the boy staying indoors to read through the missives and to tend his father's correspondence. One of many things Rome had offered to him that he would not have access to otherwise. He spoke decent Latin, and enough Greek to get by. He was more educated than most, with a sharp mind; he knew the odds of survival were slim, unless he submitted himself to the authority of Rome.   
"Come with me."

~*~

Esaron snarled with frustration as he was cuffed again, his head smarting with the pain of it.  
"Nh! Lay off, you fucking beasts!" His voice was a snarl of rage.  
"Shut your fucking mouth, boy, or I'll see to it that you're just thrown to the Legion, instead of getting a nice dominus who might treat you well. Keep this up and you'll be hanging from a tree before we even leave your miserable excuse for a village." The boy's teeth clicked together as he bit back his next retort. _Damn Rome. Damn them all to Hades._ He struggled against the soldiers even as they were locking the chains around his wrists.

"Fuck you all," he muttered under his breath, earning yet another slap for his insolence. It only made the fires of his rage burn the hotter. No matter who took him, no matter who decided they were going to own him, the boy would fight back with everything he had. Never surrender, never give in. Whoever took him would get not one bit of pleasure from him unless they could tame him, or gain his respect. And the young Briton would never respect a Roman.

~*~

 

Justinian Titus of the Claudii rode alongside Gaius Caesar at the front of what remained of their force, the way down to the latest in a string of villages involved in an uprising a smoking ruin in the distance. To his left, on the other side of Caesar's snow white mount, Mark Antony was keeping up a steady, vulgar chatter. The Praefectus gritted his teeth in silence, training his eyes on the wreck and ruin, by sheer force of will alone.

When they reached the village, the soldiers had the villagers rounded up, in neat lines. Their wrists chained or bound in front of them, standing or kneeling in the mud, while the soldiers kept a wary eye on them for unrest or mutinous expression. Justinian gave little enough heed to Caesar's speech as he rode down the slave lines, defining their futures for them. He had heard it in every village this month, a further six of them, and knew it off by heart. If they submitted themselves to Rome's authority, if they laid down their arms, if they did not revolt a second time, they would be spared. Sedition and rebellion would be met with maximum prejudice, and escape would be met with death. 

When Caesar had finished, they road the lines and inspected the pens together; taking their pick of those on offer. Justinian paid little enough attention as Caesar plucked likely gladiators and field slaves for his villas from the lines; his mind wandering. It was easy enough, until a commotion from near the village center drew his curiosity. With a salute, he heeled his horse towards the shouts. 

~*~ 

Ryan found himself bound in line next to a white-blonde boy with rage in his bright green eyes. The youth cursed and tugged at the chains, snarling his disgust first in Latin, and then in their own crude tongue. Ryan inched away from him, leaning out of the way of his curses and threats, wishing desperately to be spared whatever punishment fell upon the rebellious boy beside him.

When the deep bay gelding cantered up and was reined to a halt in front of them, he tensed. _Gods save me, is this salvation, or retribution...?_ The snap of a flail cracked above his head, and he turned, wincing, to see a line of red opened across the white-haired boy's cheek.   
" _What is the meaning of this?_ " The voice was stern and rough, a voice made for thundering across battlefields. Esaron spat at the horse's feet, growling an insult that Ryan did not hear. The soldier behind them grabbed the youth by the hair, forcing him, and the others attached to the same chain, to their knees. He heard the high whinny of the gelding, the thump as Roman boots hit the ground. He kept his head bowed, watching as the Roman approached by the stride of his feet across the earth. "Remove _that_ one from the lines, and have him flogged. I'll take no further insult today. As if this day was not insult enough-" He muttered, as Esaron's shackles were unclipped from the running chain and the boy was dragged off, he knew not where. "Do any of you feel the same? Would you rather an uncertain fate and the wrath of Rome, or would you submit yourself to Roman authority and find a better existence than what you have brought upon yourselves!" 

A warm, rough hand grasped his chin, forcing him to look up into the tanned, clean shaven face and deep brown eyes of the Roman Praefectus.  
"Will you submit?"

So it was that Ryan found himself, on his knees in the mud of an early spring, at the feet of Justinian Titus of the Claudii.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part where I remind you my research was primarily conducted over six years ago~
> 
> Also soon introducing Justinian's cousin, one Marcus Claudius Marcellus; a character stolen out of sixth or seventh-rate obscurity from HBO's ROME.

_With The Enemy_

 

_A warm, rough hand grasped his chin, forcing him to look up into the tanned, clean shaven face and deep brown eyes of the Roman Praefectus._  
_"Will you submit?"_

Ryan found himself leaning into the touch, nearly against his will. It was more than could be expected of him, to fight now, here on his knees in the mud; with the scent of battle and blood clinging to everything. Here, with the might of Rome before him dressed in red and bronze on a fine horse. He took courage in the fact, later when he was once again warm and dry, that he did not look either to the right nor the left, but only bowed his head and whispered   
"Ita." 

~*~

Beside his Dominus' horse, Rufus shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, watching the tableau. One unbent slave who could not or would not admit to himself, and another bending gracefully to the hand that could make his life a blessing, or a hell made real. He did not much like the tension here, but would say nothing. He watched, and waited, wax tablet held in nervous hands. His Dominus would make the right decision. He could do no other.

~*~

Esaron knelt beside Ryan, unbent and eyes burning hatred as his wound oozed crimson down his dirty cheek. Others might ask what Rome could do for them, he would tell the questioners nothing but this: _They could burn._ They could pillage. They could sack. Entire villages could fall by their swords, and the world would bow the knee. His shoulders were tense, his young wrists tugging at the chains as if by simply willing it so, he could break them. It mattered not that he was beaten, nor that he now knelt in the same mud and filth as the other new-found slaves. He barked in derisive laughter when the older boy beside him gave his assent; acknowledging the "might of Rome" in one word. His answer was the Praefectus' releasing Ryan's jaw in favor of backhanding the Esaron across his still-bleeding cheek. 

"SILENCE!" That voice, long used to giving orders across the roar of battle, was thunder in the relative quiet. The boy spat blood, and glared upwards at Justinian, the rage turning to unadulterated hate.  
"Roman filth," he cursed, spitting at the man's feet. His hazel eyes were unafraid, brash. His torn tunic and leggings were splattered with mud and viler things, blood; his own or another's; was on his hands. So. The officers had already come to choose their spoils had they? Typical. "Not enough slaves in your tent, yet?" He mocked, even as short and young as he was; he drew himself taller.

Justinian stared down, brown gaze unflinching and unafraid of the whelp at his feet. He raised one brow, pointing at him directly with the flail.   
" _And yet._ " His voice was steel in the silence, broken only by Ryan's panicked breathing and the wheeze of the boy now shoving himself back to his knees. "And yet, _child_ , I am not the one covered in filth and spewing obscenities before Heaven." He contemplated the boys for a moment, before nodding at Vorenus, holding the slave line. "Release the dark one to me, and have the blonde delivered to my tent. Send the rest to Rome. I will deal with them upon my return. Rufus will care for the details." 

Vorenus snapped a sharp salute,  
"Sir!" and turned to do his lord's bidding. Rufus stepped up quickly, following Vorenus and taking down names, and the numbers being sent in Justinian's name. 

 

Ryan found himself once more looking up into the Roman's dark brown eyes, and the strong, calloused hand extended to him.   
"Come, boy." With only one panicked glance backwards at the lines, he took it in his own. He was hauled forward and mounted on the Roman's horse, who soon lept up behind him. With a cry and a hard kick from the soldier, the horse was thundering out of what remained of the village, soon left smoking behind them.

~*~

Ryan did his best not to lean too much against the Praefectus behind him. He was filthy, and what's more, he knew it. He knew that hiding as he had had only gotten mud all over him. Being chained in the lines hadn't helped matters any more than the cages might. He shivered a little when he saw the tent. Oh, this wasn't just an officer then, was it? His hands started shaking, but he hid them by clinging to the raised horns of the saddle. He dared not look forward or back, just clung on with his knees and did his best not to rock into the Roman's armor, or to soil his crimson cloak. It took only a half mile for the Roman to wrap an arm around him instead.   
"You move too much," He muttered, just loud enough for the new-made slave to hear it. "Hold on. We're nearly there." 

As they topped the next rise, he could see the Roman's camp in the distance. A heavy wooden palisade, with the tops of crimson tents just visible through the dusk. Ryan felt his heart drop. There lay his future, what might remain of it. And, should he displease the man who held him, might well be the end of it as well.

~*~

Unlike the rank and file, the Praefectus' 'tent' was only surpassed by Caesar's own. It looked very much like a small house, complete with open windows and statuary within. Justinian dismounted quickly, passing his reins to the waiting stablehand, before reaching for Ryan.  
"Well." It was not a question. He dismounted with far less grace, but managed not to get his foot tangled in the stirrup. He blushed, catching the Roman's hand as he tripped, and ducked his head.  
"Apologies-" he did not get the chance to give it voice, but found himself dragged into the tent by the back of his tunic. 

He soon found himself confronted with two youths in Roman dress, obviously not soldiers themselves, waiting in the makeshift bathing area. The tub was steaming full. Justinian released him, dark eyes hard.   
  
"I've saved you, boy, and I will expect some gratitude. If you treat me with the respect I deserve, as a free citizen, a soldier of Rome, and a man of noble birth, you will be treated well in turn. If you defy me, attempt escape, or to run... you will be punished. There are archers on the wall, waiting for slaves to run as much as they look for attacks from the outside. There is nowhere for you to go. If you accept your lot, and prove yourself, you may find reward in it. Think on that." He gave curt orders to the attending servants, or slaves, Ryan could not tell, before turning on his heel and leaving the tent. 

The older, dark-haired youth approached cautiously.   
"Pay attention to what he tells you. What are you called?"   
"I am Ryan."  
  
~*~

By the time Ryan had bathed and been dressed in a clean tunic and had it belted with knotted cord, Rufus arrived with Esaron in tow. The white-haired boy was chained to the largest tent pole, to one side of the living space, and left there to sulk as he pleased. Rufus conferred briefly with Marius and Marcus, the two dark-haired slaves. He came to look Ryan over, approving of all but his hair.   
"We shall see if the Dominus wants it cut short, for now, you make keep your barbarian hair," he sniffed, before sighing heavily. "You will be my responsibility it seems. Your new Dominus is quite busy, boy, being a senior member of Rome's military. He will be attending to his men, and fulfilling his duties. As will you. I will be training you in your new tasks, and making sure you do not stray from the line." He looked him over carefully, his eyes missing nothing. "You may have submitted yourself to Roman rule, but others have done the same only to betray Her at the first turn. Do not think that because you have done so, you are to be trusted." The implication was clear; here was a slave in his home country. While there could be little thought of rescue, the smallest hope was often enough. Rufus waited, patiently, for his answer.   
"I have surrendered to Rome. Time will judge." It was hardly enough, and he knew it, but it was all he could offer in honesty. Gratefully, it seemed enough to soothe the old Greek.  
"Come then. You will learn."   
  
~*~

They spent the two hours between Rufus' arrival with the still-sullen and struggling Esaron and Justinian's own, by familiarizing Ryan with the layout of the tent, and what his duties were. To draw water and have it heated for bathing or cleanliness, to bring food at the appropriate hours, and to keep his Dominus' clothing clean. To tidy behind him, and, if necessary, to obey any order his Dominus gave. He was also given to understand that the soldiers outside, and who surrounded the tent at various points, would think nothing at all of killing a slave. Particularly not one who tried to escape. This was taken with relative good grace, even if it made his insides shake to think on too long. 

When he paused in his duties; emptying the tub and bringing new water for his Dominus' to wash his hands when he arrived, he paused beside the tent pole. Esaron was there, still struggling with the chains. Making sharp, jerking tugs of his shackles against the heavy wooden pillar sunk deep into the ground.   
"...Do you not know when you're beaten, or is it that you refuse to give in when you're faced with reality?" Esaron looked up slowly, hazel eyes burning with rage.  
"They've taken your home, burned it to the ground, you know. Or, they will have, by the time the sun goes down. Do you really think that surrender to them, that agreeing to do.... unspeakable things, will save you?" Ryan would have given answer, but the boy turned his head resolutely, and began his struggles again. Knowing it was useless to argue better sense, Ryan merely carried on with his duties, overseen by the ever-watchful Rufus.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the shorter chapter! We'll be going right into Esaron's attitude adjustment, and some more... smutty explorations in the next one, which will hopefully be quite a bit longer! Thank you for the kudos and the bookmarks. I started writing this just for myself and a friend, and I'm glad it's starting to take off without any flaming :D

_The Shape Of Things_

 

The moment the Praefectus entered the tent, it became a hive of activity. Ryan stood against one wall of the tent, hands clasped before him as he watched... and learned. Marius was first to approach, offering still-warm water for the officer to wash the blood and dirt from his hands and face. There has been shouting in the camp before, but even Rufus had seemed reluctant to investigate, claiming he'd  
"Seen it all before now. It's nothing you should be watching, and that one," he waved absently towards Esaron, now reduced to glaring at any who dared to come near him, "should not for reasons far greater." Before he could make any reply, Ryan had been shoved off towards the next chore and the next task.

When the Praefectus had washed and dried himself, it was Marcus who helped Marius remove the heavy armor and return it to its stand. When he was left in little more than tunic and boots, he crossed to the wide table and sat; running a hand through his short-cropped hair.   
"Food, Rufus, and see to it the boys are cared for," he looked up only as the old greek set a wooden trencher before him and poured out watered wine. The trencher contained little more than stew, a porridge of some kind, and bread that Ryan could see, and yet it was far more than any of the new slaves being sent to Rome at dawn would receive this night. "Gratitude, Rufus-"

Ryan started, staring. What sort of man thanked a slave, and seemed to do it earnestly? He shifted, uncomfortable at the thoughts now racing in his mind. So preoccupied was he, that he heard neither Esaron's muttered complaint, nor noticed he had been addressed til Rufus was standing over him.  
"Your Dominus has asked you a question, boy!" He jumped, looking up into the lined face.   
"A-Apologies, sir, I did not hear." Rufus sighed, turning over his shoulder to look at Justinian.   
"I fear this one might be dim," he huffed, before snapping fingers at Marius and Marcus. The three left the living quarters for their own small, walled-off portion to eat out of sight of their Dominus. It took several moments of Justinian's quiet eating before he acknowledged his new slave again. 

"What is your name, boy?" He paused, his cup halfway to his lips. "You are a quiet one, aren't you," He mused, waiting.  
"....Ryan, sir. Ah- Dominus? I am called Ryan," he hesitated, his uncertainty showing through. Nervous in front of the man who owned him; a boy who had never known slavery, and had little understanding of what that meant.   
"Domine." The Roman corrected gently, taking a slow drink and returning the cup to its place. "It is Dominus, when you are speaking of me, boy, and Domine, when you wish to speak to me direct." He smiled, warmth creeping into the dark brown eyes. "Your Latin is not so bad as I had feared. At least we may understand each other." He beckoned him forward, and the dark-haired boy inched forward by degrees, nervous and yet fearing to disobey his new master. 

"Ah, now that is better. Far better to see you in the light, instead of off in some dark corner. Here, I may appreciate what I have taken." Justinian reached out for him, gentle despite the calloused palm, and took his jaw in his hand. "You are not unattractive," he murmured, turning his face with a slow, insistent pressure. "Strange, to find such a flower as you amid the destruction and violence of Gaul." He laughed, releasing him. "Do not look so frightened. Surely I have not hurt you?" Ryan managed to shake his head, to deny that he was hurt, but even that seemed a fearful task. "Good. I would hate to have done so, even had you been so insolent as your friend, there," He snorted. "The fool doesn't know what he's been given. But you, I think," sharp eyes took in the new tunic, the belt, and the sandals on the boy's feet. "You know how to appreciate what you are given, and to seek favor. It is enough."

"Rufus told me little," Ryan swallowed, watching the Roman take another drink of the wine. "Only that I am to obey, and to do what tasks may be assigned to me. I will do my best-" he hastened to assure, but Justinian only lifted a hand to silence him.   
"Time enough for teaching you your place, boy. Come-" he pulled him down onto his lap, sat across one broad thigh. "I doubt that Rufus has seen fit to feed you, and it is good for me to have the chance myself." He tore off a piece of bread, wrapping one strong arm around his waist to steady him, before holding it to his lips. "Come now, eat."   
  
Ryan could scare believe what was happening to him. The warm, solid strength of Rome given flesh beneath and around him, and here... offering him food in the midst of his uncertainty. He opened for him obediently, sighing with quiet pleasure at the soft, white Roman bread given to him. Justinian laughed quietly, pleased with the outcome, and continued his own meal. Occasionally passing more to the boy in his arms, and pouring water for him as well. Every so often, he would press his face to the boy's throat, breathing in contently. He smiled at the blush that stole across the boy's pale skin, and would have kissed it, were he certain Ryan would not run from him, screaming. 

"You may relax, pet," he murmured, "I will ask nothing so terrible of you, this night. Only to give me the comfort of your beauty, and the feel of you in my arms. No harm will come to you. I did not steal you from a worse fate, only to visit the same upon you myself." True enough that there were many who would be so abused. True enough that, had he not taken both Esaron and Ryan from the lines, Vorenus, Pullo, or even his own blooded cousin, Marcus Claudius Marcellus, might have used them according to their whims. Upon further reflection, he concluded however, that Vorenus had never touched anyone; man or woman. He dismissed the line of thought, and returned to the boy, shivering against him. "Peace. You are safe here." 

There was little to do but take him at his word. And so Ryan found himself with his head against the Roman's broad shoulder, being fed from his hand, and coddled like a prized possession, instead of a new-made slave. And if his stomach was tied in knots by the end, at least he could take comfort in that he had not been over-fed.

~*~

After a quiet meal spent together with very little talking, Justinian rose, putting the boy aside.  
"I find I must now deal with your friend," he said seriously. "I understand if you do not wish to witness such a thing. I will, however, be as lenient as I may; in hope that he will accept grace, instead of punishment for his rebellious spirit." He lifted a hand, forestalling argument. "I will not silently bear his insult, nor may I be so lenient as to allow such to go unpunished. When he has spoken against me, he speaks also against Rome." He sighed, "The boy knows not what he has been given. It is my duty to make him understand, and I will do so as best I know. Will you stay, or shall I have Rufus take you elsewhere?" 

Ryan swallowed, the food turning in his stomach as he thought of all the ways Esaron could and should be punished for his many insults and for fighting against the soldiers.   
"He is not my friend, Domine," he said carefully. "Even before you came to us, he was not the kind of person I would associate with. I accepted Rome's authority long before we...rebelled." The admission came hard, the surrender even harder for a proud, but intelligent, Gallic spirit. He clung to intelligence over pride, something in him loathing the need. "I think. I think he is confused. That... he considers pride to be a strength, and capitulation to a stronger opponent weakness." He turned bright, prickling hazel eyes on his master. "I do not ask mercy for him. He deserves whatever you see fit." 

"It is a wonder, to find one like you here," The Roman said quietly, considering. "You have as much mind as you do-" he cut himself off, a smile in his eyes. "But, you have not answered me, boy. Will you stay?" Ryan nodded. It was the least he could do. Both to understand the man who now owned him, and to see what sort of man he truly was. "Very well. _Rufus!_ " 

~*~

Esaron was unsurprised to find himself being unshackled from the post and dragged before the Roman in his chains. Marius put him on his knees before his Dominus, and stood, a small dagger in his hand, unseen by the blonde at his feet. Justinian walked slowly forward, leaving Ryan standing at a loss behind the desk.   
"So," He sighed, not approaching near enough to touch the rebellious youth. "This is our little rebel, is it." He beckoned to Rufus, "Unchain him, his wrists are raw enough already." 

Esaron waited for the heavy irons to be removed, his mind working quickly. If he further insulted the Roman, the most he could do would be to strike at him or risk making him an equal, after a fashion. If he ran, he would be killed. If he attacked the man, he'd be beaten, and very likely killed. His lips twisted into a pained smirk at his predicament.  
"Oh, the cleverness of you," he mocked. "Hoping I'll run so you have an excuse to kill me? Big, honorable man like you too afraid to kill a boy in chains?" Ryan could have slapped him himself. The idiocy being displayed was enough to make him cry on Esaron's behalf. Instead, he tightened his shoulders and watched, silent.

"Rufus. You see the assumptions and judgments the boy makes? How little he trusts me... How little faith he places in Rome. Rome, who has built roads and schools, who has provided their people with food, and clothing, and goods in trade. Aqueducts, protection from your enemies, patrols on the roads we built with our own hands. And yet, here, where your rebellion has sold you into slavery, still, do you mock and deride that you know not of. It saddens me." Justinian sighed, leaning back against the table and gripping it with both hands. "Such attitude only steals the beauty in you. And I had hoped to keep you for my own. A pity, that. So, what is to be done, hey?" 

Esaron could see the sense in his words, and yet refused to give in. Why should he please the man? He would serve if he was made to, and only to survive. And yet, the Roman spoke of beauty. He could have laughed, was he not now afraid of what it could mean. He was a boy covered in blood his own or another's, in a torn and dirty tunic. This soldier had a strange sense of what deserved praise, if he found beauty in _that_. He lifted his face, his eyes still hateful.

"Certain, you could do with a wash, and perhaps new clothes as well. You see how your friend is dressed," He turned, eyeing Ryan with obvious appreciation. "You see how well he looks, dressed nicely and in fine Roman style. Would it be such a terrible thing, to be treated so?" It was the wrong question to ask. Esaron spat at his feet, once more the raging beast.

"Roman scum-" he barked derisively. "I know too well the cost of those fine clothes and the food you've given. Why should I submit, when you would take what you wish whether I do, or no? If you wish to beat me, you'll find a reason one way or another. If you wish me dead, you'll kill me and have done. Why bend my neck and take a knee, when you will do as you please, with or without my.... _surrender._ " Justinian stopped just short of rubbing his temples in frustration.   
"I have no wish to beat you. Had I the desire, you would have been stripped and flogged before the lines before I was so insulted, this afternoon. Instead, you have been saved from the block, and brought to a place of comfort. You have not been thrown to the Legion, a fate I doubt you would survive, and neither have I, nor any of mine, forced themselves upon you. If you persist in this attitude, I will not keep you when once we reach Rome. I have no time for your insults, nor any desire to bear them from one who should be prostrate before me in gratitude."

He pushed off the table, straightening to his full height. He stood, considering the slave at his feet. Behind Esaron, Marius' grip on his dagger tightened, waiting for any order from his Dominus. He raised a brow, appraising.   
"Rufus. Have him taken outside and bathed. I don't need his filth marring my tent. Dress him, and return him to me." The officer turned, beckoning to Ryan, and moved through into his living quarters; sectioned off only by a tent wall. 

As they left, he heard Rufus snapping orders to Marius and Marcus to take the boy's arms, and the sounds of scuffling as they dragged him from the tent and to the water trough outside in the cold.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I tag this for whump? Let me know in the comments~ 
> 
> Also... here is where we earn our rating~

_Making Adjustments_

 

The water was frigid. It dripped down his hair and washed across his dirty, bruised skin and in its place, the wind drew gooseflesh and shivering growls from the wildcat of a youth. He sputtered and spat as Marius and Marcus held him down for Rufus' rough scrubbing. The old greek left him no time to struggle as they stripped him to the waist, and used rough clothes to clean the dirt and gore from his lithe limbs. Rufus seemed almost amused in the torchlight, the struggles of the white-haired Briton seeming to amuse him greatly. Whether they did or did not, Esaron sound found himself facing the harsh reality of freezing cold water, gathering dark, and soldiers watching his shame by torchlight. 

Before they were finished with him, Esaron had been stripped entirely, and no place on his body left unclean. It was not the pleasant, reassuring experience that Ryan had been offered in the least. And was, truly, better than he deserved. In his innermost parts, Esaron understood that this was the least of what the Praefectus could do to him. In truth, he deserved far worse for his insults. This knowledge did little more than make him sullen, the hazel eyes casting judgments not only at the soldiers who stared appreciatively at his pale skin, reddening under the tender ministrations of Rufus and the others, or the shape of him in the swift-approaching night. 

When he tried to curse Marius for a heavy-handed grip, Rufus backhanded him across the same cut cheek he'd been trying to clean.   
"If you do not hold still, it is I who will beat you and drag you before the Dominus," He said, voice like iron. "He has been nothing but good to you, a Roman of noble and ancient family, taking pity on a dusty, blood-soaked wildling Keltoi. You should be at his feet in gratitude, and look at you!" He boxed his ears for good measure, frustrated and angry at the boy's continued curses in Latin and his own coarser tongue. "No sense in your thick, barbarian skull!" 

Rufus dried his hands, wishing for salt paste. The acid in it would keep the boy's wound clean, but would also have the added benefit of stinging like Dis Pater's Inferno. As it was, they must keep such things for the soldiers, and those who ruled them. There was little enough he could ask for a rebellious, unwilling slave. Particularly one who might not last the night. 

~*~

"There is little I will ask of you, tonight." Justinian's voice was low, some underling lighting lamps while the struggle in the yard could be heard from within. "But, there is something I require of you. I will not harm you, and you may even enjoy yourself, boy. But it is a requirement, and I will take no argument." Ryan felt his heart drop into his stomach, feeling the wrench of it as he stood, silent, where he had been placed.   
"I am sure," He said carefully, not daring to look upwards into his eyes, "that my Dominus will not harm me, unduly." 

A slow smile crossed Justinian's face, unseen by the young Gaul.  
"Very good, boy. Let me tell you what I require."

~*~

Esaron fell to his knees where Marius cast him, nude and shivering, hair dripping water, covered loosely in a broad, cast-off woolen tunic. He caught it close around him, his wrists stinging painfully from where they had been rubbed raw against the iron shackles. It was his own fault, by far. And yet, in his own mind, it was one more injury the Roman had done to him, and it rankled. 

Justinian looked up from his papers, Ryan sat across his lap again, being coddled. The older slave seemed to be taken with the man, Esaron noted, disgusted by the display. Ryan pressed himself against the Roman's chest, allowing himself to be petted and cossetted as one might a beloved pet. It made him sick to see it.  
"Wasting no time on claiming what you've stolen, Roman?" The question was mocking, derisive. "Shall we all kneel and kiss your feet, and beg to suck your cock?"

Ryan turned his head, ostensibly to press kisses against Justinian's throat, but truly to hide the fearful look in his eyes that would have given the game away. He shivered, and the Roman's hand moved soothingly through his hair; though it twitched in well-controlled anger.   
"There you go again, with your uncouth assumptions and accusations. They have no merit. Have I harmed you in all your hours beneath my roof? Have I done you some personal wrong, and not known it...? No." His eyes were hard, even as he tenderly drew Ryan's face up for a gentle kiss. "Mmm... No. I think it far more likely that your injured pride is to blame." He looked from the boy in his lap, to Esaron; white-blonde hair dripping across his shoulders, curls tamed into damp, twisting waves across his brow. He was almost pretty... a shame, to harm such a beautiful creature. And yet, the boy in his lap gave the lie to the saying that the ones the Gods loved, they made beautiful. Surely, beauty of spirit was far better! And in truth, the dark youth had his share of beauty in full. 

"I'd sooner offer myself to a diseased whore on the streets of Rome than have you so near me," Justinian spoke quietly, but bluntly. "As least she would be possessed of honor and a noble spirit, and perhaps worth the risk. You, I am afraid, may be bound for a far worse fate if you do not submit to me." He ran a hand lightly up Ryan's side, watching him shiver with a slow smile. "You see what it is to take pleasure in my touch, to be shown sweetness... and yet you growl and bark like a dog. You'll beg for my mercy, before it is given to you, boy." 

Justinian leaned back in the camp chair, taking Ryan with him; cradling him against his chest.   
"You see how he responds to me? How willingly he accepts my touch and seeks my mastery of him?" Ryan knew the cue, he lifted his face for the Roman and let his eyes fall shut as if he had not heard the words at all. For the sake of Esaron's life, and his own good fortune, he could act as necessary to secure his future. "Look~ How sweetly he submits." 

Ryan found his hair tugged lightly, and allowed himself to be guided; exposing his throat to the gentle kiss and sweet sting of the officer's teeth set against his skin.   
"Mmnn.... Domine-" He hissed, arching into the touch as pain streaked across his flesh. Justinian only bit down harder in response, leaving a colorful bruise behind when once he pulled away again.   
"He acknowledges me. Has done, since I found him in chains next to you. How two boys of the same village may be so different, gods may judge. But I know which I prefer, even if your looks might have won you another master's better favor." 

Esaron watched their little passion play with growing confusion and anger. Why was he just _giving in?_ Didn't he know what Rome was capable of? What it _meant?_  He watched in revulsion as the Roman kissed and caressed his new toy, cringed when his hand slid along the boy's thigh and parted his legs. He shrunk back, feeling both Marius and Marcus behind him, and the prick of a dagger sliding beneath his ear.   
"Do not move. You will regret it." The harsh rasp was Marius he knew, and he went still. The fear making his limbs leaden and unwieldy while his heart hammered in his chest. 

"Ah~ There's a good boy," Justinian all-but purred in Ryan's ear. "Hush, little one, I've got you." His voice lowered further, breathing encouragement that Esaron could not hear. "Hush now, I'll not harm you. You're doing well for me, don’t think about anything but this, right here-" His hand closed over the slave's cock beneath the tunic and began stroking him slowly. "This is what I want, and I’d like for you to enjoy it as well. I’m already getting what I want, and I just need you to… yes, that’s right-" Ryan whined when his aching cock was touched, the rough hands gentle against his most sensitive skin, unconsciously jerking up into the tight circle of his master's fist. 

Justinian huffed a laugh against his neck, nuzzling at his jaw,  
"Perfection." This was more than what he'd hoped, the boy was truly coming apart in his arms, and not just making a show of it for the sake of the unruly brat before them. If the thought of sharing a bed did nothing to change his mind, then the boy would be sent to his villa in Capua. Treated well enough, but he'd never be more than a slave in his stables or working in the kennel. And with a face like that... it would be a true pity indeed. His thoughts snapped back to the slave in his arms when he whimpered, hips stuttering in their slow, steady rock. "Ah, good... that's it, little one, find your pleasure," he murmured, nipping lightly at his ear. To be authentic to the tableau, he told himself, but perhaps it was not so simple as that- "Good boy-" 

Esaron ground his teeth together, unable and unwilling to admit that the noises the Roman scum was wringing from his countryman were doing anything to arouse his own interest. He huddled on the floor, grateful at least for the loose covering that revealed nothing, and granted him that small dignity.

Ryan felt the muscles of his stomach and thighs tightening as he approached his release, clinging to Justinian's shoulders and burying his face against his chest. He whined at the encouragement, knowing what was expected, and what he wanted more than anything else at that moment. When Justinian breathed across his throat, catching it in his teeth once more, he lost himself in the white heat and insensate pleasure-

~*~

When he came to himself once more, it was to a rapidly-cooling warm cloth being gently moved across his skin; cleaning the mess from him. Justinian pressed a light kiss to his temple, practically cuddling him close against his body.   
"You did well," He murmured, too low for the sullen Esaron to hear. Rufus came then, taking Ryan from his arms and leading him away into Justinian's bedroom while the Roman dealt with the remainder of his problem. 

Justinian stood slowly, picking up what remained of his wine and taking a long, slow drink before speaking.  
"You must know by now that, had I wished it, I could have taken you instead of offering pleasure and comfort to the boy." He spoke matter of factly, for all he felt himself affected by what had just transpired. "Do you yet think of me as a tyrant and a monster, or will you, too, submit yourself to me?" 

Esaron shifted on his knees, still uncomfortable but now more uncertain than ever. His perceptions warred with what he'd just witnessed, while Marius and Marcus slipped away to join Rufus. He chewed at his lower lip, tugging the cloak tighter around him before looking up into warm brown eyes and a tanned Roman face.  
"You're right," he muttered, "Maybe I do assume too much." Justinian smiled inwardly, triumphant. 

"Perhaps you do."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a small mistake in confusing which part of Gaul Caesar would have been occupying at this time. Cisalpine Gaul is in Northern Italy, Gaul extends however, through Britain, and into Scotland. Therefore it's a bit far fetched to consider either of these boys true Keltoi. I'm willing to fudge a bit and allow Esaron to remain a Briton, but Ryan's nation of origin had to change; albeit only in a minor way. 
> 
> I'm fairly certain I caught all the instances and fixed them, but regardless.... Moving on~

_Marks_

 

The cold light of dawn found Ryan stretched across his master's bed, the Roman gone for what appeared to be hours. The furs and blankets where he had lain were cold, and the grey dawn showed no signs of him. He dragged himself from the bed, and scrubbed his face in the basin, before dumping what water remained and picking up the bucket. He emptied it carefully outside the tent in the yard, before refilling it from the trough and returning to the tent. Once the basin had been refilled with cleaner water, he set about the chores Rufus had given him the afternoon before. Pick up discarded clothing and place it in the basket for the laundry to deal with, straighten the bed, and sweep out the tent as best he could. There were other things to be done, but Marius and Marcus had already set to polishing armor and their master's weapons the night before, and the heavy breastplate was missing from its stand along with the helmet. 

"What are you staring at boy!" Rufus stern voice cut through the early-morning stillness, whip like. "Dominus has gone to council with the other Officers. He will return when he returns and not before. Attend!" He snapped his fingers, his eyes boring into Ryan as he evaluated him carefully. "You've done well. I did not even have to wake you, this morning. Mm. Perhaps you will not be such a worrisome element as I might have guessed." The emphasis placed made it seem the old Greek found this very unlikely indeed. Ryan only bowed his head, and rushed to complete the rest of his chores before his Dominus returned. 

~*~

Justinian's coming was like the herald of a coming storm. The curtain door of the tent was thrown wide, and he strode in, tossing his helmet to a surprised Marius, and rounding on his Greek body slave.  
"Rufus! Rouse the boys and begin our packing. We return to Rome. The Thirteenths is being rallied, we ride with Mark Antony to Rome." The Greek started, staring, before realizing the import of his words.   
"Caesar is...sending Mark Antony to Rome." His shoulders moved in a heavy sigh, before he nodded decisively. "It will be seen to, Domine!" He began shouting orders at the slaves in a rush of Greek and Latin, and the boys hurried to obey. As he followed the directions given tersely by Rufus, packing all his Dominus' belongings into the few chests and baskets that had been given, the camp furniture left for another officer who might have need of it- he was given a very, very basic understanding of what had transpired at the morning's meeting. 

Pompey Magnus, in Rome, had turned on Caesar. The only hope of the army not still sitting in dismal wet and cold conditions come the turn of the year and the end of Caesar's term was to send Mark Antony as People's Tribune to try to turn the rising tide. It might not work, but it might, and the chance was enough. The Thirteenth, and therefore their Dominus, were being sent as honor guard and insurance against anything going wrong. As he worked, feverish in his desperation not to hold them back, he wondered; briefly; whether or not his Dominus would be taking them along. His question was answered in its own time.

~*~

Less than an hour later, the slaves had been fed, the wagons were being packed, and four men entered the tent. Justinian sat quietly at the desk, placing necessary documents into a sheave to be kept safe by Rufus.   
"Ah, there you are. My apologies, the camp is in uproar, but I have need of your services." The box they carried was placed heavily upon the table, the contents laid out. Ryan found himself pressing back against the tent wall, staring in fear. Knives, needles, jars of ink- It was more than apparent what was about to take place. Beside him, yet chained to the tent pole, Esaron crouched, watching with a dark, rabid glare. Justinian approached cautiously, reaching a hand for the dark-haired boy.   
"This is not how I wanted this done. But if we are riding to Rome, I will not have you lost or abused on the way." He gripped his shoulder, firm. "You must bear this for me, for your own sake as well as mine." He pulled him close, embracing him briefly before sitting him on the camp chair and placing a leather-wrapped stick between his teeth. "Bite on this, and do not move." He held him steady, two of the men grasping the boy's arms and holding him steady while the third took a sharp instrument, and began cutting the proper design into his flesh above his heart.

Ryan did his best not to scream, but strangled cries still made their way to his lips. It hurt. It hurt more than anything that had yet been done to him, in all his years. A burning, tearing feeling that did not dissipate as the Roman's mark was engraved in his flesh. Partway through he collapsed backwards, the Roman's strong arms holding him upright.  
"Hush, sweetling, it will be over soon," he murmured quietly, his grip not lessening in the least until it was done. When the bloody design had been completed, ink was rubbed firmly into the wound left behind, and bandaged. Justinian set a cup of wine before him and commanded him to drink, while what remained was carried from the tent.   
  
Justinian smoothed the hair from his brow, murmuring quiet praise that the slave did not hear. This was the end of things, for him, then. Branded a slave, for as long as he lived, no matter what might transpire. He would never truly be free again. He hardly looked up as the leather collar was stitched into place, the silver plate bearing Justinian's name and house nearly feeling as though it was tacked on, and afterthought.   
"This will protect you from those who would do you harm. Here in this camp, and in Rome. I will not allow you to be so abused," the Roman said again, stroking his face lightly before the same leather collar was sewn tightly around Esaron's neck as well.   
"Is he not to be tattooed as well, Domine?" Justinian's narrowed eyes were all the answer Ryan needed, but the Roman shook his head.   
"No. I do not yet know if I plan to keep the boy, or sell him. Why should I mark what may soon belong to another?" He shrugged, and turned to go. Rufus held the oiled leather sheave, and Marius took up Esaron's chains.

Nothing further was said as they were loaded into one of the wagons, and the Thirteenth left the encampment. In a mere three hours, Ryan's life had changed yet again, and this new change looked to be permanent.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_The Road To Rome_

 

The wagon jostles with the uneven terrain, and the creak of harness is all that can be heard over the occasional shouted order and the thunder of hooves and wagon wheels. Rufus uses the time as wisely as he can, the old Greek doing his best to ascertain what Ryan knows of Latin, and to instruct him as best he may. Esaron is riding with Marius and Marcus in the second wagon, still pouting no doubt. Ryan turns his focus to the droning Greek beside him, and does his best to ignore the goings on around them. 

~*~

The steady tramp of near five thousand men is a monotonous thing, and were it not for his other duties; even on the march; Justinian is certain he would fall asleep in the saddle. Mark Antony is a dull, vulgar man whose appetites only serve to make him more boorish and frustrating. Were it not for the direct order of Caesar, Justinian would far rather have remained in the field. As it is, they must all make the best of an awkward, and potentially damaging situation. Caesar has sent one of his own slaves along, to keep an eye on Antony and force him to the correct path; a task Justinian does not envy the man. He knees his horse forward, cantering along the steadily marching line, intent on keep them moving, no matter the cost. 

When he reaches the wagons near the back of the line, he keeps pace for awhile, watching for any sign of mutiny in the ranks caught up in the dust of the column. A hundred faces, gaze as steady as their feet, pay him little mind. It is enough. He would have returned to the other officers at the head of the lines, but the boy catches his eye. Dark head bent over a wax tablet, Rufus' hand on his shoulder as he writes, shakily due to the rollicking of the wagon, but writes all the same. Latin, it must be. He should reward the Greek later for endeavoring to educate the boy; an educated slave is often a valuable one. A Gaul that can read and write Latin and do a bit of scribing even more so.... One intelligent enough to help with accounts- 

"Boy! What did you say your name was...?" He kneed the gelding into a quick walk behind the wagon, and the slave looked up, startled.  
"I- Ah, I am called Ryan, Domine." It is the correct form, and the Latin beautiful on his quick Gallic tongue. Justinian pushes away thoughts of what that tongue might otherwise be capable of, and smiles slowly.  
"Ryan." It is an easy enough name, simple and suitable for the boy's station in life. Nothing so tangled as the rest of his countrymen, who might have a name with more syllables than Justinian's own, or something rough and guttural in the mouth. "Will you ride with me, boy? I would know more of you." The slave sends one panicked look in Rufus' direction, before nodding. It is a simple enough thing to jump down out of the wagon, a little jarring though it may be. A far simpler one to grasp the upstretched hand and pull him into the saddle before his Dominus. 

"There you are," he murmured, nuzzling lightly at the boy's ear as he settles himself in the saddle. "Now, hold on." He wraps one arm around the boy's waist, holding him against his armored chest, before kneeing the horse and galloping down the line.

~*~

There are only a few things that Ryan would list as more thrilling or terrifying than to be swept up onto his Dominus' horse and immediately off at a gallop; chief among them the attack on the village. Which, admittedly, ranked most heavily upon the "terrifying" side of the scales. But when they had reached the front of the column, and his Dominus had verified his report to the Legatus, he allowed the horse to drop behind. They rode in silence for a few moments, until Ryan shifted in the saddle, not quite managing to look at his Dominus, nor to see his face. But the line of jaw, beginning to show stubble now that it was nearing afternoon, the impression of stern authority. These were enough to quail any questions he'd been considering. 

The Roman did not move much, only the slow steady roll of a man used to being on horseback. His hands, calloused and rough, were steady on the reins. Ryan found himself relaxing by degrees, leaning into him and sighing comfortably. The Roman nudged him gently from behind, a small smile going unseen by the boy before him. 

"So. You must be nervous to see Rome," Justinian began. "It will be quite unlike what you are used to, I am sure. You haven't much to compare it to, I shouldn't think, a boy from a small village."   
"You're right, Domine," Ryan gripped the cantled front of the saddle a bit tighter, _gods why did the ground look so far away from here?_ and leaned into the solid presence of the Roman behind him. "I have nothing to compare it to-" his fingers dug into the leather of the saddle, knees squeezed the horse's sun-hot body between his knees as he tried not to sway into the Roman too much. "A small boy from a small village in a small tribe... who refused to pay its debts and openly rebelled against Rome." Somehow the rote, expected, response comes easiest, even if it is more or less the truth. 

The village was a small one, less than two hundred souls, and their tribe was neither the strongest nor the most wealthy. His father had been a merchant trader it was true, so not such a small boy as that. And yet. And yet, here he was on the back of a horse, a Roman Praefectus behind him, the man who owned him, heading for the capitol city of those who should be his enemy. His stomach lurched, and he clung tighter to the cantle. 

"Forgive me, Domine. I do not mean to be so-" The heavy hand covering his is shocking in its gentleness.  
"Hush, sweetling," hot breath against his skin, the prickle of stubble against his cheek. "You've done nothing wrong. I asked, did I not." It is not a question.  
"Ita, Domine- but,"   
"No more. There is no reason." 

The horse picks up its pace with a signal from his rider, and off they go again, traversing the lines of the steadily trudging legion. The boy will learn. In time.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orbis.stanford.edu tells me that it would take 7-10 days to travel from Rome to the alps, but Caesar's encampment was just beyond the Rubicon, in what is now Rimini, roughly four hours and 210 miles from Rome. Generally horses can only go 30-50 miles in a day, and walking apparently would take 70 hours. So, we'll say three days. (Which bears out under the historical record of three days after Antony's expulsion from Rome, of Caesar crossing the Rubicon on January 10th.

_New Lessons_

  
The road to Rome was a long one, and  Ryan divided his time between the wagons with Rufus, and his Dominus' horse. They spoke quietly with one another, Justinian questioning him about his upbringing and skills, and Ryan learning more of Rome. The young Gaul did his utmost to absorb what he could from his Dominus, and repeated back any words or phrases Justinian taught him as they rode the ranks together, the Praefectus often pausing to shout orders, or give reports to the Legate and other officers riding at the head of the column with Antony. When the paused for the night, he was quick to swing the boy from the saddle and send him off with Rufus to prepare the encampment, but mostly it was hard riding and forced marches, with afternoons astride his Master's horse.

~*~

Ryan sat with his back against a tree in the darkness, the campfires dotting the valley in neat points of light, showing the orderliness of the Roman military. Cena had been a rather frugal one, some sort of porridge and spring water eaten quickly before he returned to his duties. But now, with the tents raised and only those soldiers on guard duty walking the perimeters, he was safe enough. Rufus, Marius and Marcus were asleep in their cloaks beneath the wagon, with Esaron chained to the wheel. Ryan poked the ashes of the fire with a long stick, aimless, watching the sparks rise into the cooling night air. 

The tent flap was pushed wide, and he looked up, startled. Justinian paused, half out of the low red tent, his mouth curving into a slow smile.  
"Ah, there you are, boy. Put that out, and come to bed, it is cold, and I will not have you falling ill this close to home." Ryan blushed faintly and did as he was told; pouring water over the dying embers and covering them with ash and dirt. He followed Justinian into the tent, and watched as his Master tied it shut to keep the wind out. The Roman beckoned him close in the low-roofed enclosure, and sat on the edge of the cot.

"Here, then..." He pulled him close by the hand, and settled Ryan on his knee, stroking the hair from his face gently. "It's been a long day for you, I'm sure, sweetling, but I find myself unable to sleep." He had long since removed his armor, and was dressed only in the soldier's tunic and his belt. The sword lay against the cot, in easy reach should he be attacked in the night. Even that was enough to remind the Gaul just what sort of man he belonged to. He pressed into the touch, eyes sliding shut. It had been a long day....   
"Ita, Domine.... what. Mm... what do you wish of me?" 

Ryan did not see the smile that crossed the Roman's lips at his easy acquiescence, only felt the brush of warm lips against his jaw. One lingering kiss before the Roman moved lower still, trailing kisses across his throat as he cupped the back of his head gently; holding him close.   
"You truly are a treasure," he murmured, nipping lightly at his warming flesh. "So warm, and willing..." His hands slid lower, caressing his back and shoulders. "Remove your clothing, boy, I want to see you." 

Ryan moved from his lap carefully, slipping the cloak from his shoulders and letting it fall to the ground; followed by belt and sandals, and finally his tunic as well, until he was bared to the man's gaze. Justinian took him in, hungry for the sight of him, before tugging him roughly back into his arms. He kissed him roughly, demanding, and Ryan yielded; opening his mouth for the searching tongue and the sting of teeth set against his lower lip. The Roman's eyes were fire, his hands calloused and scarred where they dragged across his skin, groping and caressing his nude body with obvious appreciation.   
"That's right, my good sweet boy... yield-" He kissed him a second time, and a third, maneuvering him down onto the cot, tucking his tunic up into his belt to free his cock. "Mmn, this is not how I would have done this, boy, but I promise to help you enjoy it, just the same." 

Oil from the small amphora hanging from the bedpost, and a few tense moments later, and Ryan was being opened by slick, gentle fingers. Justinian kissed him lightly, sucked and bit bruises into his chest and worried at his nipples with his teeth; stretching him for the invasion to come.  
"Easy, boy.... that's it, just like that. Open for me, sweetling... I promise, you'll like this-" Ryan's hips arched up off the cot when Justinian found the secret place inside, that made him see stars with his eyes shut, made him whimper and moan in pleasure. Justinian stroked his cock lightly, in time with his thrusting fingers, before sliding from him with a quiet groan. "My boy... my very good boy-" Soon enough he was pressing down against his slave, rubbing the head of his cock across his virginal hole. "Hush, little one, don't scream-" And Ryan was biting at his own wrist, stifling his cries obediently as he was filled, aching. 

Justinian whispered soft praises in his ear, kissing and sucking at his earlobe, nuzzling at his throat as he took him, slow and deep; savoring the feel of his body wrapped so tight and hot around his own.   
"Mmm, Ryan, gods-" He captured his lips in a fierce, searing kiss, pinning his wrists to the bed above him; grinding down into him. "Nnn.... you are... utter perfection, boy-" he managed, a muffled groan rising from his chest as he fucked him mercilessly into the cot. "Good..... yes, boy, give in to me, yield-" Ryan bucked under him, feeling the drag of his cock against his flesh, pushing deeper, and making him ache with need with every hard, deep thrust of his Master's hips. "That's it... that's right-" Justinian's hand found his cock again and started stroking him off quickly, eager to find his  release and to give his slave what pleasure he could. 

When he came, it was to the sound of Justinian's voice, crying his name.

~*~

Ryan woke, sore and somewhat sticky, to find Justinian already gone. He rolled from the cot and washed himself in the basin before dressing and tossing the water out into the grass beyond the tent before drawing more from the nearby stream. He began packing up the tent, joined by Marius not long after. They worked in silence, breaking down the tent and returning their Master's belongings to the wagon. Ryan knew Justinian was giving his reports and eating with the officers, and so did not mind the chilly breakfast of porridge and bread, and water. Esaron was sullen and silent when given his portion, and Ryan might have worried had he the time to do so. The camp was alive with soldiers, servants and slaves, each doing their part to move the legion on as quickly as possible to Rome. It was not long before all were in readiness, and they set off again in the direction of the capitol.   
  
The majority of the morning was spent with Rufus, being taught enough history and politics not to make a fool of himself. The remainder of their time was spent on Latin and mathematics, expanding on what Ryan already knew and translating his skills into something more useful. It came as little surprise when Justinian pulled up next to them on his horse, and swept Ryan away into the saddle. Rufus looked disapprovingly at Justinian, but said nothing as the Praefectus kneed the horse into a quick gallop up the line. 

Ryan moved with the animal as best he could, learning from the sore legs and bruised knees of the previous day. Justinian drew him closer again, pulling the boy tight against his chest and slowed the beast to a walk.   
"Do you fear me, boy?" The question came without preamble and Ryan started. The horse danced a pace or two, but Justinian reined him in, controlling him quickly. "Ah!" Ryan blushed, chewing at his lower lip.  
"I...I do not fear you, Domine," he said softly, turning his head to catch the expression on the Roman's face. Justinian just quirked a brow at him and said nothing, waiting. "It's only. The first time you touched me, was to convince Esaron that service is better than rebellion. And yet... and yet he is still chained to the wheel at night, and you have not marked him. Last night you had no such reason to touch me, Domine, and still-" And still. The completion of that sentence hung between them, and Justinian exhaled quietly. "I don't understand what you wish of me, Domine. Am I.... Am I your... your whore?" He almost choked on the last word, face in flames. The Roman rested a hand on his thigh, gripping it firmly.

"A whore," he commented lightly, "belongs to whomever has the coin to buy them. You, my pet, belong to me alone. What I desire is to _keep_ you. To possess you utterly, assured of your loyalty and service. To have you in my bed when I want you, and as a decoration in my home when I do not; with your beautiful jewel eyes, and your sweet, pale, skin. For you to fulfill the tasks I set you, and to learn from Rufus all that I may desire of you, so that you are an asset to my house and your value to me might increase." Ryan rested against his chest, lulled by the slow, steady movements of the beast beneath them.   
"Ita, Domine... I understand." Justinian nodded, quiet, above him.  
"Then we understand each other."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This stupid FUCKING SITE keeps EATING MY FUCKING WORK even when I put it in FUCKING PREVIEW MODE and DELETING 98% of the ENTIRE FUCKING THING. EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. because FOR SOME FUCKING REASON it hates using rich text editor and I AM NOT going to code in every fucking tiny bit of italics and line breaks.
> 
> Fuck you, AO3 GET YOUR FUCKING SHIT TOGETHER MAN. I HATE using this site and it's making me not want to write. I have tried multiple times over the past fucking THREE MONTHS to edit this fucking thing, and I HATE IT, so FIX YOUR SHIT.

_Rome_

As they topped the last rise at evening on the third day, Ryan saw the city spread out before them, the hills and the city walls shining in the dying light. The Legati halted the ranks for armor to be straightened, crests affixed to helms, and some of the dust of the road shaken from their cloaks. Ryan was deposited in Rufus’ wagon, and his Dominus heeled his horse to the front of the line to ride down into the city beside Mark Antony. 

The slaveboy watched from the space between the driver’s bench and the hide-covered opening as they approached, staring in awe at the towering walls and the way the city fell open before them as soon as they passed. The heat and the noise of their arrival did little to help him translate the rapid-fire Latin around him, but the faces of most in the city were open and joyous, clear enough that this Antony was well-liked, even loved, by the lower classes. Still, as his Dominus left the train to deliver Mark Antony to the temple, Rufus turned their wagons towards the Legatus’ own home.

~*~

Justinian Claudius Catulus Titus was not a man for religion. Pious, yes. Gods-respecting and venerating, of course! What good Roman would deny the gods…? And yet the false obsequiousness of the priests and the corruption of the priesthood grated like sand in the eyes, distasteful and unavoidable. What reputable temple would offer a discount to returning soldiers for the lives they had taken? And yet, here he stood, within one such temple observing as Marcus Antonius was anointed Tribune of Plebs. Only his rigid military training kept him upright as the priests circled, carrying the tools and various implements of their trade, as animals were sacrificed and strange words uttered as clouds of scented smoke wafted around the inner sanctum.

He counted the cracks in the tiles as the lamps burned down, wondered what Rufus was doing at the Domus, considered what should be done with his new acquisitions when he had the time and could see to them. His wandering mind paid little enough attention to the mundane world around him, save to keep watch over the various blades and who had them in hand at any given moment. It was enough to safeguard the body of the Tribune; he cared not for the simpering and scraping of the priesthood, grown fat and stupid with Rome’s tithes and sacrifices.

~*~

As the wagon climbed the Caelian hill, Ryan got a better look at the construction of Rome. Its hills and streets, its people. Rufus said little enough on their approach, until they were past the gates and the large heavy doors to the courtyard were bolted behind the wagons. More slaves poured from the house, at least twelve that Ryan could count, swiftly unpacking the necessaries from their conveyance and returning them to their place within the house. Rufus himself led Ryan away indoors into the cool interior rooms. Looking over his shoulder, he could just see Esaron, still in chains, being removed from the wagon, before the door swung shut behind him and all was silence again.

Their footsteps rang in the arched entrance hall, moving around the awe-struck slave as he stared around him in wonder. Everything was so clean! The polished tile beneath his feet was swept smooth and recently scrubbed down with what seemed like scented water, tall pillars raised the vaulted ceiling above him, and the light from the lamps and the open courtyard before them turned all red and gold. 

“Boy! You will be coming with me, yes?” Rufus stood, stern and immovable as the other slaves and servants moved around him like fish around a rock midstream. He shook his head, clearing the daze from his mind and his limbs, before scurrying after the implacable Greek. “I will show you to your rooms, and acquaint you with the house. By rights it should be Marius or one of the Dominus’ other boys, but as it is… better if I am the one.” And with that cryptic explanation, Rufus hustled him off down the hall, to the corner just opposite the Legatus’ room, through the house’s armory and the entrance to the cells beneath the domus.

“The Dominus has not seen fit to wed, and so the Domina’s quarters are currently empty. You are to be staying out of them, boy, and keeping your hands to yourself. For the moment, and until he tells you otherwise, you will not be sleeping with the other boys.” Rufus pushed the door open, showing him the bare room, motioning to the solid bed and comfortable looking mattress, and the furs piled across the foot of it. “There are other linens in the basket beneath the bed, should you be requiring them, and clean tunics in the cupboard. When they are dirty, you are to be taking them to the laundry yourself. One of the girls will be taking care of it, and returning them to your room. The slaves have their own quarters, just beyond yours. The baths are there, and the necessary. You are not to be using the Family’s bathing rooms unless brought there by the Dominus himself, understand? It isn’t done.” Ryan nodded, a little numb with all the information the Greek was piling onto him so rapidly.

“Your tasks will be given to you by either Marius, Caecilia one of the head housemaids, or your Dominus directly. If someone tells you to do a thing you do not find appropriate, you will find me immediately. You are not to take on tasks not your own, nor allow the other boys to bully you-” Rufus smiled grimly, “You’re not here to do drudge work, nor to be saddled with their filth. The Dominus favors you, that much is certain. How much he favors you remains to be seen. You will clean yourself in the basin, change your clothes, and present yourself in the Dominus’ office,” He pointed across the way to the door on the other side of the armory. “I’ll be waiting, and seeing to the reports that have come in in the Dominus’ absence. Get moving, boy. There is work to be done.”

The door closing firmly behind the old Greek felt like a death knell in the relative silence, and Ryan took several moments to breathe and calm his racing heart before doing as he was told. There was, as the Greek had said, work to be done.


End file.
